


Rabbit Proof Fence

by apropensityforcharm



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, mild references to sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:47:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apropensityforcharm/pseuds/apropensityforcharm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“it’s the middle of the night and i’m walking home alone in the dark and there’s this guy following me and he’s starting to gain on me and i found this phone booth with a lock on the door and i tried to call my best friend but my hands were shaking so badly i accidentally dialed the wrong number and i don’t even know you but help me” au</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rabbit Proof Fence

The door shuts violently, the glass shuddering in its frame. Kurt slams the flimsy flick lock home so hard that the wood groans, and he staggers back, one, two steps before his back hits the phone set behind him.

Oh god. Oh  _god._

He can feel himself trembling, his hands shaking so badly that he can barely manage to dig the single quarter out of his pocket. The glass of the tiny little phone booth is foggy in the cold, but in the yellow light of the lamps outside, he can still see the man – that  _man_ that’s been following him for five blocks now, and getting – closer, and closer, while Kurt’s steps got progressively shakier, and his breath left him in panicked little pants, until he’d finally managed to seek shelter in this mercifully lockable phone booth. And now he’s trapped.

Kurt’s not quite sure how he always manages to get into these situations. He doesn’t know what it is, but something about him  _screams_ vulnerable to predators looking for fresh meat. Karofsky, assholes at NYADA who don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves, big men in clubs angry at rejection, and now this  _sociopath_ following him for blocks on end on his way to his graveyard shift at the Spotlight Diner. He’s not tiny, not weak, but he doesn’t – can’t – fight back. Maybe they can  _smell_ it on him.

And now he’s trapped. Trapped and with one quarter to spend. No mobile phone, because the diner has insane policy rules about that for their staff, but a quarter. He can work with a quarter.

Mentally, he flicks through his contact list.

Artie and Sam won’t take him seriously enough to help, Rachel is only intimidating when she  _doesn’t_ want to be, Mercedes is in the studio with her phone off, Santana is – Santana is at the Spotlight Diner, waiting impatiently for him to arrive so she can switch off and go home.

Across the street, the man stretches casually and steps off the footpath, heading to a bench closer to Kurt. His breath seizes and his shoulder tense, the fear resurging in his mind so suddenly that he feels a little dizzy. The men settles down on the bench; he's eerily still, a big cat stalking his prey, and his head twists slowly, calmly, in Kurt's direction.

Kurt's breath drops out of him, and his lungs refuse to take any more in.

The guy is huge, broad and heavy set. Kurt wraps his arm around his waist tighter; he's fitter than he's ever been, but he's not a big man. He doesn’t have the sort of muscle mass that Puck or Sam have. He can’t defend himself if the man tries to get into the phone booth.

Call Santana. Santana is confident and loud and keeps razor blades in her hair. She'll mock him for weeks to come, but she won't let anyone hurt him. She won't. She  _won't_.

Kurt begins punching in the numbers into the stiff, grotty keyboard, but it's dark and his hands are unsteady and his breath is still uncooperative, sharp cracks and breaks in his lungs. He punches in the last number, and waits.

His mind is still running too fast, tripping and stumbling over the jagged ruts of fear, like a rabbit bolting straight into a dead end. He focuses on the rhythmic dial tone to try and calm his breathing, which works – until the man outside tilts his head, and smiles.

The line picks up and a tired voice says, ‘Hello?’

That's - that's not Santana. That's a man speaking, a man with a smooth, politely detached voice, and  _fuck_ , he's called the wrong number.

He doesn't have any more small change on him.

'I - ' His mouth is too dry to talk. He tries again. 'I'm sorry, I think I've got the wrong number.' He can hear his own voice shaking, because he's about three seconds away from breaking down into sobs. He’s thrown away his only chance at help, and he’s going to have to go out there again and – that man is barely five metres away.

'Oh,' the other man says. 'No worries, it happens.'

'Yeah,' Kurt breathes. 'Okay, I'll just.' He goes to put the phone down, feeling like he's signing away his own death sentence, but stops on instinct when he hears the tinny voice hurriedly say, 'Wait!'

He puts the phone back to his ear.

'Uh, not to overstep, but you seem kind of upset,' the man says. 'Scared upset. Can I help at all?'

Kurt automatically goes to say  _I'll be fine_  - and stops himself. He's stuck in an ancient phone booth, with no money and no means of contacting anyone else, ten minutes away from his next raft of safety in the diner. He's not fine.

He could be a serial killer, he thinks to himself. Knowing his luck, the man on the phone is a mob boss, or a psychopath, or a goddamn serial rapist like the man outside the phone booth. But his voice is soothing and measured, warm. Inexplicably, he finds himself trusting this voice.

The man outside hasn't moved, is still just sitting there and  _watching him_.

'Hello?' The man says. 'Are you still there?'

And the words tumble out of him before he can change his mind. 'There's a man who's been following me,' he says. 'He's been behind me for five blocks now and I've locked myself in a phone booth, and he's just - ' his breath shudders out and his stomach twists painfully, ' -  _waiting_  for me right outside, and I can't leave and I need to get to work, my friend is waiting for me, but I can't - leave - fuck - '

'Take a deep breath,' the voice instructs. The air feels like splinters lining his throat, but Kurt obeys.

'Have you tried calling the police?' The man asks.

'No, I - I only had one quarter and I tried calling my friend to come help me but I got you instead,' Kurt says. 'I can't contact anyone else. God, I’m so  _stupid – ‘_

‘You made a mistake in a high pressure environment,’ the voice corrects gently. 'Do you want me to call the police for you? Do you feel comfortable telling me your location?'

‘Adjunct of Stanhope and Irving,’ Kurt breathes. ‘Bushwick.’

There’s a pause on the other end of the line. Then the man says, ‘I know the place. It’s a ten minute walk from my current location, actually. I – I wouldn’t dare speak ill of our illustrious police force here in Bushwick, but I’d probably get there faster if you feel safe with that. I can’t pretend to be the most intimidating presence, but nine times out of ten your guy will back off the moment you get any support at all.’

‘Please,’ Kurt stutters out immediately. ‘ _Please._ ’

‘I’ll run,’ the man on the phone promises. ‘Hang tight. Keep breathing.’

And then the phone goes dead, and Kurt is alone with the man outside the booth once more, and the night suddenly seems a lot colder.

He can’t seem to let go of the phone while he waits, clutches it tight to his chest and presses himself as far as possible into the corner of the little booth, never taking his eyes off of the man outside. The phone is – safety and comfort. And a weapon to use if the bastard gets impatient and tries to get into his booth.

It seems like forever before he spots movement in the corner of his eye; Kurt can feel his knuckles slowly going stiff from holding the phone so tight. And then the faint lamp at the corner of the street catches on a dark figure jogging towards them, shoulders hunched high and hands in coat pockets to protect from the cold, and Kurt feels his knees almost buckle underneath him at the overwhelming sense of relief. He sags back against the wood panelling to stay upright and bows his head down against his chest. God – god, he’s  _safe._

The figure is closer now, close enough that Kurt can see that he’s sturdily built but sort of short, practically half the other’s man size, which isn’t exactly encouraging. He’s wearing a  _bowtie._ Oh god, the other guy is going to squash him flat with one palm.

But – no. As the man gets closer, close enough that it’s clear he’s intentionally approaching them, the man on the bench straightens and his smirk twists into a scowl. He stands up – and Christ, he’s  _twice_ the other man’s height – but when the man in the bowtie turns to look at him, he lowers his gaze. A second later and he shrugs his shoulders, mutters something Kurt can’t hear under his breath, and skulks off down the street, dragging his feet along the concrete.

Kurt’s breath leaves him in a whoosh, and this time his legs really do buckle underneath him. He slides to the – dank, dirty – ground and pulls his knees to his chest and the next moment, he bursts into tears.

When he hears a quiet, hesitant tapping on the glass above, he looks up. The man from the phone is standing above him, his brow crinkled adorably, one hand pressed to the glass while he looks in on Kurt. His bowtie has a pattern of teddy-bears on it.

Kurt pulls himself to his feet and takes an unsteady, reassuring breath, tries to get a handle on his tears. He unlatches the creaky lock and the door swings outward, letting in a rush of cold air.

The man steps back and looks at him. For a moment, they’re quiet, neither quite sure what to says. And then the man holds out a hand, a small but sincere smile on his face, and says, ‘I’m Blaine.’

Kurt shakes his hand. ‘Kurt.’

Blaine rubs his hand over his neck. ‘I’d say it’s nice to meet you, but, uh – ‘

‘Thank you,’ Kurt blurts. ‘I don’t know what I would have done if I’d had to go out there again without help. Died, probably, so just... thank you.’

Blaine’s smile settles. ‘He was a pretty big man,’ he says almost conversationally. ‘I almost had a heart attack when I saw that  _that_ was who I was supposed to be fending off.’

‘You were right though,’ Kurt admits. ‘The moment he saw you all his bravado just... disappeared.’

‘Yeah,’ Blaine says, and when the silence between them stretches he adds, ‘Do you, um, need help getting anywhere?’

‘Work,’ Kurt sighs. ‘God, I’ve got to be half an hour late by now. Santana is going to murder me and use my skull as a wine goblet.’

‘I could walk you there?’ Blaine offers. ‘You know, if you... want to.’

Kurt thinks for a moment. His heart is still beating rabbit fast and he’s feeling vaguely nauseas, the nervy, weak kind that comes with an overload of adrenaline and cortisol. He feels needy, in need of reassurance. He really,  _really_ does not want to be alone right now. So.

‘That would be nice,’ he says quietly and Blaine’s smile broadens.

They’re mostly silent on the way there, which Kurt is grateful for. His brain feels overfull, like cotton balls have been stuffed into his skull, and he doesn’t think he could hold a conversation if he wanted to. Blaine walks close to him and occasionally his fingers brush Kurt’s – a quiet assertion of his presence, his safety.

When they reach the Spotlight Diner, Santana is waiting out the front, her nails clicking dangerously along her crossed arms, her eyes narrowed to slits. She spots Kurt and her glare intensifies. He flinches.

‘Well, well,’ she purrs. ‘Looks like Sleeping Beauty finally made his way here. Enjoy your booty call, bubble butt?’

Kurt opens his mouth to respond, but Blaine intercepts.

‘Kurt got into some trouble on the way here and I happened to be around to help out at the time,’ he explains smoothly.

‘Who the hell are  _you_?’ Santana snaps, apparently insulted.

‘A friend,’ Blaine says. ‘And I can assure you that Kurt’s lateness was of no fault of his own.’

Santana looks at him again, and Kurt knows she’s taking in the way he’s still too pale, the way he can’t quite stop fidgeting with the hem of his work shirt. Her gaze softens somewhat. ‘Whatever,’ she says flippantly. ‘It’s management you’ve gots to report to anyways. I’m off to get my beauty sleep. Bye, Kurt. Bye Thumbelina.’

As she stalks off, Blaine asks, ‘Should  _she_ be out on her own?’

‘She’ll be fine,’ Kurt murmurs. ‘She’s scary.’

‘Huh,’ Blaine says. ‘So, look, Kurt – ‘

‘I won’t keep you any longer,’ Kurt says hurriedly. ‘I’m so sorry for messing up your night.’

‘It was no problem at all,’ Blaine says warmly, stepping forward to clasp Kurt’s hand between both of his own. ‘Truly.’

Kurt feels panicked for a moment at the thought of Blaine leaving. He doesn’t know what it is about him, but Blaine makes him feel  _safe,_ like all the harm in the world is nothing at all against Blaine’s smile, and he doesn’t want to let that go. He hasn’t experienced that feeling much in his life. It’s addictive, coffee rich, and maybe it’s Kurt slightly feverish mind, but he doesn’t want to let  _Blaine_ go. He wants to get to know him, to get to know this strange many who was willing to help a complete stranger just because he sounded scared on the phone. There aren’t many people like that.

And besides. He’s cute.

‘Let me make you something to eat,’ he offers, and pulls Blaine over to one of the booths. He can feel his manager glaring daggers at him from behind the counter and he knows he’ll be in for at as soon as he goes back shop, but he ignores them for now. ‘On the house of course, as a thank you for being my knight in shining bowtie.’

‘I wouldn’t want to impose – ‘ Blaine begins to protest, but Kurt interrupts and says, ‘Please. If it’s alright with you, I’d really like to say thank you.’

After a moment, Blaine smiles. ‘That would be lovely.’

Kurt hesitates, licks his lips. ‘And – maybe we could get to know each other a little better some other time? In happier circumstance?’

Blaine beams. ‘I would  _love_ to.’

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and/or comments are appreciated. <3


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